live. The two Salvagers tie her hands, behind her back.
From behind me there’s a sound of retching.
That’s why we don’t get breakfast.
“Janine, most likely,” Ofglen whispers.
I’ve seen it before, the white bag placed over the head, the woman helped up onto the high stool as if she’s being helped up the steps of a bus, steadied there, the noose adjusted delicately around the neck, like a vestment, the stool kicked away. I’ve heard the long sigh go up, from around me, the sigh like air coming out of an air mattress, I’ve seen Aunt Lydia place her hand over the mike, to stifle the other sounds coming from behind her, I’ve leaned forward to touch the rope in front of me, in time with the others, both hands on it, the rope hairy, sticky with tar in the hot sun, then placed my hand on my heart to show my unity with the Salvagers and my consent, and my complicity in the death of this woman. I have seen the kicking feet and the two in black who now seize hold of them and drag downwards with all their weight. I don’t want to see it any more. I look at the grass instead. I describe the rope.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The three bodies hang there, even with the white sacks over their heads looking curiously stretched, like chickens strung up by the necks in a meatshop window; like birds with their wings clipped, like flightless birds, wrecked angels. It’s hard to take your eyes off them. Beneath the hems of the dresses the feet dangle, two pairs of red shoes, one pair of blue. If it weren’t for the ropes and the sacks it could be a kind of dance, a ballet, caught by flash-camera: mid-air. They look arranged. They look like showbiz. It must have been Aunt Lydia who put the blue one in the middle.
“Today’s Salvaging is now concluded,” Aunt Lydia announces into the mike. “But …”
We turn to her, listen to her, watch her. She has always known how to space her pauses. A ripple runs over us, a stir. Something else, perhaps, is going to happen.
“But you may stand up, and form a circle.” She smiles down upon us, generous, munificent. She is about to give us something. Bestow. “Orderly, now.”
She is talking to us, to the Handmaids. Some of the Wives are leaving now, some of the daughters. Most of them stay, but they stay behind, out of the way, they watch merely. They are not part of the circle.
Two Guardians have moved forward and are coiling up the thick rope, getting it out of the way. Others move the cushions. We are milling around now, on the grass space in front of the stage, some jockeying for position at the front, next to the centre, many pushing just as hard to work their way to the middle where they will be shielded. It’s a mistake to hang back too obviously in any group like this; it stamps you as lukewarm, lacking in zeal. There’s an energy building here, a murmur, a tremor of readiness and anger. The bodies tense, the eyes are brighter, as if aiming.
I don’t want to be at the front, or at the back either. I’m not sure what’s coming, though I sense it won’t be anything I want to see up close. But Ofglen has hold of my arm, she tugs me with her, and now we’re in the second line, with only a thin hedge of bodies in front of us. I don’t want to see, yet I don’t pull back either. I’ve heard rumours, which I only half believed. Despite everything I already know, I say to myself: they wouldn’t go that far.
“You know the rules for a Particicution,” Aunt Lydia says. “You will wait until I blow the whistle. After that, what you do is up to you, until I blow the whistle again. Understood?”
A noise comes from among us, a formless assent.
“Well then,” says Aunt Lydia. She nods. Two Guardians, not the same ones that have taken away the rope, come forward now from behind the stage. Between them they half-carry, half-drag a third man. He too is in a Guardian’s uniform, but he has no hat on and the uniform is dirty and torn. His face is cut and bruised, deep reddish-brown bruises; the flesh is swollen and knobby, stubbled with unshaven beard. This doesn’t look like a face but like an unknown vegetable, a mangled bulb